


The Lies We Tell Ourselves

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Drabble request by @charlotteofcamelot – “Could I maybe request a super short drabble of Cas interacting – and I don’t mean sexually – with an overweight character that has body image issues, please?” Reader has serious self-doubts about their body. Enter Castiel stage left with the fluff. I have a theory that’s why he wears the trench coat all the time – extra pockets to carry more fluff. (P.S. You specified “super short” length, but my muse is not so great at following instructions. I had to give up editing it because more words kept getting added. Oops!)





	The Lies We Tell Ourselves

_This is pointless! I have nothing to wear!_ Your frustration grew more and more unbearable with each article of clothing hastily pulled from the closet and tugged over your round shoulders or yanked up too generous thighs and ultimately yielding the same unsatisfactory reflection in the mirror. _Ten minutes. We’re leaving in ten minutes._ You’d have settled for looking just okay at this point. You weren’t out to win any beauty pageants tonight. Far from it – only going out for cheap drinks and live music in a hole-in-the-wall bar with shitty lighting. But nothing fit right. Nothing made you feel good enough to go out with the Winchester brothers. Not with Dean and his gorgeous green eyes and charismatic personality and boy-next-door bod who managed to make flannel and layers simultaneously approachable and sexy. And certainly not with Sam and his devastating combination of a swoon-worthy sculpted muscular build and bottomless intellect for deep conversation – not to mention better hair than you on your best days. _Ten minutes, ten hours, it doesn’t matter. I look terrible!_ Worked into a tizzy, you chucked your favorite oversized sweater at the mirror, knocking it from the dresser in a cacophony of shattered glass, and flopped defeated onto your bed. _I’ll just stay in tonight. It’s not worth it._

“Y/N,” a sharp knock echoed on your door, Sam’s warm voice sounding from the other side, “you alright? I heard a noise.”

“Dropped something is all!” you half-shouted, scrambling to your feet. Making your way to the door, careful to avoid the glinting shards of reflective glass littering the floor, you quickly threw on a robe and cracked the door ever so slightly to assure Sam you were fine.

“You’re not coming out with us?” he inquired, astutely noting your casual state of undress.

“I’m actually not feeling well,” you lied, the well-worn excuse spilling from your pouting lips without a second thought, “you guys have a good time though.” Lying was easier than admitting the truth – you hated the way your clothes looked because no matter how flattering they might be to your figure, none of them could hide the fact that in your mind you were overweight. You knew every lump and bump and rolling imperfection hidden beneath the thin fabric, and nights like this the knowledge was so overwhelming it paralyzed your ability to participate in life.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked quietly, brow knitting in worry. “You need anything? I could stay back, order some pizza or something. That new series we wanted to watch is up on Netflix.”

Despite the genuine concern in his timbre, you were so far into the pit of self-disillusionment that you instantly rejected his offer of company, imagining he sounded wholly unconvinced of your feigned malady. _He feels sorry for me, dammit. Sympathy offer to hang out, wonderful._ “Nah, don’t let me hold you back. Got another bad headache. Already took Aspirin, just gonna sleep it off,” you winced and rubbed your temple for effect. You hated yourself even more for being dishonest with a friend.

“Feel better then,” Sam frowned, politely nodding goodnight, lanky legs swiftly carrying him down the hall to disappear around the corner.

And you did feel better – the receding thud of footsteps unburdening you of social commitment, freeing you to wallow in your insecurity without an audience for the night…or so you thought.

Comfy pajamas donned, freshly popped bowl of popcorn in hand, bunker to yourself, you made your way from the kitchen to your bedroom, ready to snuggle under the covers and get lost in a favorite movie – to be swept up in another universe, far away from the body image issues that plagued you. Rounding the hall corner, you stopped up short at the threshold of your door, unexpectedly catching sight of a familiar shock of tousled dark hair atop a tan trench coat.

Castiel stood in the middle of your room, blue eyes concentrating with indiscernible intent upon the various piles of discarded clothing scattered across the floor and dresser you had yet to remand to the closet. He held aloft a broken sliver of the mirror you must have overlooked when sweeping up, turning the shining piece over and over gingerly in his long fingers. The near inaudible shuffle of your socked feet drew his attention, striking blue eyes resolving their focus upon you as he spoke, “Y/N, Sam said you were unwell. I came to see if I could be of assistance.” Gesturing wide at the tornadic mess of clothing, head inclining askance, he questioned, “What happened in here? Are you okay?”

Your eyes stung with the pressing threat of tears. Telling a little white lie to Sam to persuade him to leave you alone was one thing – lying to the angel wasn’t an option. He would see through your deception, however innocent, immediately. And that would mean more questions. “I’m fine, it’s nothing. My usual clumsiness. You know me,” you tried to impart a chipper quality to your voice, avoiding directly meeting his inquiring gaze, brushing past him toward the safety of your bed.

He did know you, and he knew you were anything but clumsy. By virtue of the multitude of experiences weathered during his friendship with you and the Winchesters, he also knew humans could hurt in ways not obvious on the surface, and that they didn’t always know how to ask for help. Unconvinced by your explanation, insistent on providing whatever aid he was able, he gently caught your arm as you flew past, “Y/N, you know I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I know,” you sniffled, trying to shake free of his light grasp. You couldn’t talk to him, not about this. The way you saw yourself, all your flaws bursting at the proverbial seams, wasn’t something he could fix with the tingling caress of his grace like some bloody wound or fractured bone. No, this literal weight, this encumbrance upon your very being, was something you condemned yourself to suffer alone. _You wouldn’t understand._ The thought screamed to be liberated as you fought to suppress it. _How could you? Look at you, the very definition of angelic._

He released you, features fretfully falling as he observed you sink into the bed.

You felt his lingering gaze, endeavoring to ignore his continued presence as you fluffed the pillows behind your back and idly arranged the comforter over your legs.

He remained standing there in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly silent, expressly because you hadn’t outright refused his offer to talk. He would stand there patiently until the end of time if that’s how long it took you to either share what troubled you or ask him to leave.

“Cas?” you finally submitted to the quiet persistence of his demeanor, peering up to find his blue eyes fixed, gentle and undemanding, upon your countenance.

He listened, waiting for you to summon the fortitude to speak he knew you possessed.

“Do you ever hate yourself?” you unceremoniously spit out the crux of your problem, however ineloquent in its presentation. You searched his face for any judgement, discovering instead a sad shared empathy gloomily clouding the edges of his shining eyes.

Breaking off his steady gaze, he walked to the edge of your bed, motioning to the open space at your side, “May I?”

You nodded ascent, scooting over a bit further and smoothing the comforter so he could sit.

“Hate is a strong word,” he reclined against the headboard beside you, still not looking at you, admitting, “but I do frequently doubt my own worth.”

“You do?” you couldn’t mask your shock, “But why? You’re practically perfect – self-less, kind, intelligent, brave…handsome.” You blushed at acknowledging the last part aloud.

“That’s nice of you to say, but in truth I am broken, burdened by failure, perpetually disappointing those I love while trying to do the right thing, and trapped between Heaven and Earth and not truly belonging anywhere,” he disparaged, pausing before going on to glance over at you, bearing intensely earnest, “I could ask you the same thing, Y/N. What do you possibly have to hate about yourself? You’re the most beautiful soul I’ve had the privilege to know in the entire span of my existence.”

“I-I am?” you stammered, wetness blearing your vision and brimming over to streak your cheeks.

He wrapped an arm firmly around your shoulders, drawing you to his chest in a tender hug, confirming, “You are. And more important than you seem to know.”

You let yourself relax into his embrace – daring to believe, if only for a little while, that he might be right. Maybe you were too hard on yourself.

And Castiel likewise surrendered to the moment – for if this human, flawless in his summation, and whom he cared for so profoundly experienced the same crippling pain of self-doubt he did, then perhaps there existed some small hope he wasn’t as damaged and alone in this world as he led himself to believe.


End file.
